Thirty-Seven

                                    

                                          
Jared and I step out the elevator into my mom's office. 
Mom’s seated behind her desk, deep in conversation with some Pitbull-looking guy—muscular, with an aura that screamed danger. Marcus is by the couches, swirling a glass in his hand, quietly observing.
"Ah, you must be the precious Ruby Thompson I’ve heard so much about. It's a pleasure to finally meet you." The man steps into my line of sight. "Omar Santoro. This fine young man’s father."
I turn to Marcus, whose gaze is already locked on me. I cringe my nose, shifting my eyes from the son back to the father.
"So you’re the one who brainwashed my mom into thinking I needed a husband." 
Mom chuckles, leaning back in her chair, lighting a cigar. "Play nice," she warns. 
I flash a sugary smile. "Good thing he came with a return policy."
To my surprise, Omar bursts into laughter.
"You're a funny little thing, aren’t you?" Omar makes a dramatic show of wiping the corner of his eye, his hysterical laughter finally dying down. "As our families become more... acquainted, you'll realize I'm not a man easily 'brainwashed.'" His smile remains, but the shift in his tone and aura is unmistakable—dark, threatening and full of danger.
I open my mouth to snap back, but his voice cuts through, dismissing me. 
"You marrying or not marrying Marcus has nothing to do with you. I'm here to find my daughter not play cupid." he says slyly, eyes gleaming with something cold. 
"Your daughter?" I ask, unable to shake the feeling that this man is playing at something far bigger. 
The room stills. His dark, piercing eyes lock onto mine. My breath slows, and my heart lodges itself in my throat. My gaze flickers between him and my mother, but the air in the room feels suffocating. 
My mom lets out an exaggerated sigh, shaking her head. “Bloody fucking hell, Ruby. How could you possibly even think it’s you? Breathe, for fuck’s sake." 
Omar snickers, leaning against my mom's desk with a casual menace. "Oh dear, Savannah, looks like you’ve got a bit of handful with this one.” 
Mom passes him the cigar
“Trust me, she’s never made parenting easy." 
"Tell me about it. I’ve got seven." Omar chuckles, taking a slow drag before glancing at Marcus with undeniable pride in his eyes. He leans back, puffing smoke into the air. "Marcus is my eldest, then six more boys... and of course, my daughter. Who is currently missing." 
He turns back to me, his tone softening but still taunting. "Let me assure you this," he points at the space between him and mom. "Me and your mother. Whatever’s between us is purely platonic if not business." 
'Platonic' doesn't that word sound too familiar. 
Mom nods in agreement, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning against the mahogany table, her eyes heavy on mine. It's impossible to ever read her unless she wants you to. Mom always has a blank expression on. Always wearing a mask. Mostly when we have company but when it's just us, she's a human being again. Showcasing her emotions and is more expressive.
I guess it comes with the job. 
Omar keeps saying my name—Ruby, Ruby, Ruby—like he’s toying with me. Like he knows more about me than I could ever know about him. He holds the upper hand, and he knows it. 
“So who is she? This daughter of yours,” I ask, my voice tinged with defiance. “And when did she go missing?” 
Omar’s face hardens, the lightness completely vanishing. His eyes burn with a dangerous intensity as he fidgets with the ring on his pinky, the room thick with his silent power. 
Mom steps in, her voice cutting through like a knife. "She's a senior at Kingston Academy, honey. Alexandra De Wet." 
Alexandra De Wet. My mind races, trying to recall the name. Kingston Academy was huge, but no one forgets the biggest faces there—my brother being one of those unforgettable faces. 
I glance between Omar, Marcus and the foggy mental image of Alexandra De Wet, trying to spot any resemblance. They did share the same caramel brown skintone."I don’t know much about her. You should probably ask Ronnie—they were close. We ran track together, but last I heard, she was off in Dubai or something." 
Omar and my mother exchange a glance, one loaded with meaning. Before I can even process the unspoken message between them, the doors to the office swing open with a bang, pulling all our attention toward the entrance. 
"I see you've started without me."